I thought I could quit you, Olympics. Everyone did. Ratings were down, and you were getting killed by "Desperate Housewives" and "American Idol." Sure, we tuned in for the curling, because that's what the cool kids watch, and my son really liked the men's and women's "finger skating." You let us ogle the Hookers On Ice ice dancers and then cringe as so many fell on their fannies. And you put on one helluva hockey final.

For the most part, though, I drew strength from aloofness and judgment. Big Bad Bode took an oh-fer. That blonde chick in all the adverts hotdogged it, then denied she hotdogged it, then admitted she hotdogged it. Speedskaters squabbled. Americans won 25 medals, but 7 of them were for snowboarding, a concession made by a reluctant IOC to rope in the stoner crowd that's so ape-crazy over the X Games.

"Feh," I said. "Feh" and "double-feh."

But then you got me. You rigged it so that Italian guy won the last race, the 50-billion-meter cross country, and he got his gold medal from his sister in the middle of the home crowd at the closing ceremonies. Tens of thousands sang along with his anthem, which sounded an awful lot like the inspiration for "Bohemian Rhapsody."

You taunted me for a while, when a bunch of Pagliaccis sang "Y-M-C-A" for no apparent reason. But then came the topper, when the mayor of Vancouver, a quadriplegic, took the Olympic flag and waved it 8 times with that special waving gizmo attached to his wheelchair. Arrgh! My heart is stirring! I am moved by the triumph of the human spirit!

You've won this round, Olympics. Once again I weep at your spectacle, and you leave me wanting more. I feel so ... dirty.

The thing about living with three other people is that at any point during the day the odds are good that at least one of them is asleep. The thing about living with three other people in a 750-sqft apartment is that one of those sleeping people is usually in close proximity. Therefore, whenever I brew my coffee, more often than not I have to go into the bathroom, shut the door, and wrap the bean grinder in a towel so I don't wake anybody up.

All that has changed for the next few days, because today my wife took the boys off to bounce around Grandma's house for a while. When I got home tonight, I did what you might expect and cranked up some really old Aerosmith (the good years, when they were all high as kites). Then I threw some beans in the grinder, stood smack in the middle of my kitchen, spread my legs to shoulder-width, and pounded that grinder button with the gusto of an unhinged flamenco dancer. And the peals of granulation rang out into the big empty.

A few weeks ago I got an e-mail informing me that The Best of the Electric Company was coming to DVD. As I watched the trailer the hair on my neck stood on end, because it was as close to a Proustian madeleine as I'll ever experience.

The show embodied my youth as no other. It debuted when I was six, and I remember getting home from school and waiting impatiently for Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers to finish with their jejune prattle so I could follow my heroes, Easy Reader and Fargo North. And toward the end of the run, when Rita Moreno shimmied though the show's opening in that black, spangly cha-cha dress, I knew one day she would be mine.

My discs arrived last week, a Valentine's Day gift from my wife. (Is there any better feeling than knowing your spouse loves you enough to enable your utter dorkitude?) Even now, as I sing along with Tom Lehrer's lyrics for the first time in 30 years, it's clear these songs are embedded in soft recesses of my brainpan.

Robert is intrigued so far; I gave him a taste on Saturday, and he's twice asked to watch again. I figure that if the weather stays frigid and we're homebound for an extended period, he'll soon be literate enough to read the fine print on our lease renewal.

[Related: A Slate piece breaks down why the Electric Company kicks Noggin's ass, and why another litero-centric show like EC is highly unlikely.]

That last post was a missed opportunity. I wanted to express how my sons fill my chest with strange, wonderful twinges that exhilarate and suffocate me at the same time, but everything I came up with sounded maudlin or over-emotive. Overall, I think my game was off because for the first time I was blogging from work. My office makes me think like an automaton wage-earner who has to forage and provide, and whose fearsome presence sends impolitic thoughts cowering under the bed. Plus, my desktop isn't in the most private area, and it was impossible to keep focus while my noodge officemate kept trying to look over my shoulder.

How could I have overlooked the "Gondorff," an iconic scene in an iconic movie? And there's no excuse for not thinking of the "Drunk Freshman," since my first-year roommate passed out in exactly that position during the first week of fraternity rush. We drew rude tattoos all over his body in permanent ink and spent a good hour flicking Cracker Jacks into his mouth from long range. Fond memories for someone who now has to loom as the voice of authority in the Mystery of the Missing Balls.

Before we get into that, I should first admit that for some reason I can't process how tall Robert has gotten. I shouldn't be surprised, since 1) there's lots of height in my family (my brother would probably be 6-foot-9 by now if he hadn't taken up smoking at 13), and 2) more than once I've seen Robert grab something and thought, "Wow. He can reach that." Still, I keep leaving things on surfaces that are no longer Bert-proof.

Like the five sleeves of golf balls that until last week were on the bookshelf by my bed. Soon after they went missing I learned that Robert had decided he needed them for his OutSmarter MachineTM. Apparently, an unwitting soul is "outsmarted" when bouncy balls shoot down the ramp of his toy parking garage, bound across the hardwood floors, and lodge into the recesses of the living room. We had something of a Easter Egg hunt and found 9 of them, which means 6 are still at large. Among my usual foursome I'm well known for losing golf balls with spectacular shanks on the golf course. Losing them in my own home is pretty lame by comparison.

Intellectually, I know it's my fault for leaving stuff where he can get it. But part of me is annoyed enough to think that if he keeps taking things he knows he's not supposed to, he might just wake up one of these mornings with his mouth full of Cracker Jacks. Or maybe Veggie Booty.

On Valentine's Day, much is written about spouses and sig oths and such, but I have been remiss. I forgot to thank my boys, whose current quirks provide an essential zen calm that takes the edge off the day.

First there's TwoBert, who has developed from a casual crawler to a full-throttle skitterbug. But thumping around on all fours is hard work, so when he takes a break he swivels into a resting pose that's two parts breakin' and poppin' and one part come hither. (Yes, it took me several minutes of Googling before the right search phrase led me to those linked images; it should make for some interesting testimony when the Ministry of Information subpoenas my search records.) I like to watch TwoBert while he sits and contemplates his next move, before he swivels into Rover Mode and heads off to gnaw on the Lincoln Logs.

Then there's Robert, who lately likes to go to sleep with a lamp on. This means that every night, before I go in to switch it off, I get to play Guess The Sleeping Position. Robert's a fitful sleeper, and the odds of finding him parallel with his bed and under the covers are less than even money. Sometimes he rotates head-to-toe and faceplants into a book (the "Reversi"). Sometimes he rolls himself into a ball with his ass in the air (the "Snail"). Sometimes he pulls his bed away from the wall and sleeps in the crawl space (the Stealth Bomber "Gondorff"). The other night I sat for about 5 minutes while he lay perpendicular on his back, head hanging over the edge, mouth agape, dead to the world.

In keeping with the basic human instinct of clotting together, a bunch of dads (no, not that bunch of dads) has formed the BlogFathers. My first contribution is a little Valentine's Day poem I wrote to my wife this morning.

Most of us point to adolescence as the most troubling time in our lives, but I'm starting to think that's a load of bullshit. Far more vexing are the frustrations of todolescence, the tweener stage in which our intrepid little TwoBert finds himself. Is there a worse situation than being suddenly aware of all the things you can't do that the rest of the family does routinely?

Now at nine months, TwoBert is beset by Gordian knots at every turn. He experiments relentlessly--often spurred on by the question, "Does saliva dissolve this?"--and his mind is no doubt full of trenchant observations of the human condition. He has much to impart about love, conflict, faith, Matchbox cars, and man's search for commitment in a mechanized ethos, but all he can vocalize is "Gaaaah gaaah gaaah [fart noise]." He is a modern-day Cassandra, fruitlessly trying to steer society's ship leeward while the unheeding morons paddle toward the storm.

While he thumps around on all fours, he sees all the bipeds leaping over him to answer the phone or slide a newspaper under the cat before it barfs on the sofa. The best he can do is pull himself vertical on something and wail like a banshee when his brother runs out of the room.

He often yelps from the pain of these white shards that are stabbing their way out of his gumline. Nobody else seems to have this problem as they rip into their meals, which are strangely without breast milk.

Plus, now that wispy hair is starting to reach over his ears, he's starting to look a little like Boss Hogg.

TwoBert, if you ever get the chance to read this someday, please know that I understood. The world is full of bright, cognitive, robust souls trapped in uncooperative bodies. You can draw comfort, at least, knowing that it's only temporary. Before too long you'll be a carnivorous, prancing chatterbox just like the rest of us.

People talk of surviving the holiday season or tax season, but that's small fucking potatoes. My family is trapped in the iron clench of a truly gruesome season, a season that befalls all parents brought together by fate with other parents who gave birth at the same time of year: Birthday Season.

Your first Birthday Season is the most benign thing ever. You invite as many kids as will fit in your living space. The little babies locomote around awkwardly, stopping every so often to lick each other's heads. The parents chill out with beers and exchange stories about how their lives have changed. Candles are blown out, trinkets bestowed. All in all, not a bad way to kill a few hours.

Then things get trickier. The kids get larger, more energetic, more destructive, until the force of a kiddie gathering can't be contained in your apartment. Parties get bigger and less personal, and conversations downshift into small talk. And when the kids move on to different preschools, the guestlists triple in size, offering parents the singular thrill of making more small talk, with complete strangers:

"Hey.""Hey.""Which kid is yours?""The kid with all the cheese dust in his hair.""You must be very proud."

Saturday launched BS06 with a mind-altering bang, when 30 4-year-olds gathered at a local playgroup hut that might -- might -- have comprised 500 square feet. (I wouldn't put 30 4-year-olds in an airline hangar, much less a two-car garage, but there we are.) The driving rain was a nice touch, on two levels: the kids had to stay indoors, leaving no room for the strollers, which sat outside and got soaked. There we were, some 70 people doing our best impression of a steerage compartment on its way to Ellis Island. And then they broke out the pinatas.

When the first one burst and the masses grabbed for the candy, this marvelously ill-behaved little shit tried to push Robert out of the fray. Robert turned and looked at the kid, whom he dwarved by about 5 inches and 15 pounds, and fixed him with this look that said, "You're kidding, right?" The kid slinked away, and the issue was settled without a punch. It was easily the day's best moment.

Robert's fourth birthday is next month, and today he said he wants his party to be "dangerous." I can't think of anything that could top last Saturday, unless we held it on the West Side Highway.